Save Yourself

I cut through the alley on my way home, like I always do. A woman walks toward me, lost in her own thoughts, hands in the pockets of her green overcoat. As she passes me, she takes a crumpled paper bag out of her pocket and hands it to me.

“Here, you’ll need this.”

The bag is surprisingly heavy. I stop and look inside. It’s a handgun. I don’t know what kind. I’m not really a gun guy.

I turn to question the woman, but she’s gone.

I look back at the gun. It’s smeared with blood. Am I being framed for murder here? I look around the alley. Should I toss it in a dumpster? Now that my prints are all over the bag? Oh yes, officer, I just threw a murder weapon in the trash. No, I’ll take it to the cops myself. They can figure it out.

At the far end of the alley, I turn the corner and head down the sidewalk. Further down the street, two guys in crisp black suits are headed my way. One looks like he could bench press me with one arm. The other is smaller, with a pointed, rodent-like face. They stop when they see me.

“There!” Bench Press shouts.

In the back of my mind, I think maybe they’re some kind of government agents, and they just want to ask me some questions. But in the front of my mind, I see that they’re running toward me at an alarming rate, and given the option between fight and flight, I know which would end better for me.

I turn and bolt back up the sidewalk. You don’t ever realize until you’re running for your life just how few good hiding places your average city has. It’s all shops with no back door and side streets with no cover. I veer onto another street and duck behind a line of parked cars. A narrow alley runs up the middle of a residential block. I can hop a fence, evade a Doberman, have some wacky hijinks with a trampoline, and be home free.

Halfway up the alley is a six foot wooden fence. Perfect. I hoist myself up and over.

Well, there’s no Doberman, but there are some very dense rose bushes. Once I tear myself free, leaving more than a little skin behind, I run around the side of the house and out a gate. I glance back. No sign of them, but they can’t be too far behind.

Across the road is an old abandoned house. I hurtle up the front steps and throw the full weight of my body into the door.

It isn’t even latched.

I hit the floor with a groan and start crawling. I still have the paper bag. Somehow, I haven’t dropped it yet. Stumbling to my feet, I look for a way out, somewhere to hide, anything. A forgotten dining room table lies on its side in an otherwise empty, dust-coated room.

The front steps creak. I dive behind the table.

Footsteps grow closer. I pull the gun out of the bag. Paper bags are not known for their stealth. I glare at it as it rustles.

As I raise the gun, Rat Face appears around the table. He has a gun of his own, it’s bigger than mine, and he probably knows how to use it better than I do.

“End of the line, kid,” he says.

“Whatever you think, I didn’t do it,” I say.

“Yeah, sure.”

I look around as best I can. Bench Press is nowhere to be seen, but he can’t be far. I take a deep breath, clutching the gun.

I can do this. It’s him or me.

I pull the trigger.

Click.

And… the safety’s on.

Rat Face smirks. He’s got me now.

That’s what he thinks.

I throw myself at him, head-butting him in the stomach. That catches him off guard and I push past him. There’s Bench Press and he’s not too happy to see me. And there’s a half broken French door to my right.

After not weighing my options at all, I launch myself into the door. As it turns out, a half broken door is also a half not broken door, and my egress is not nearly as smooth as I had hoped. I land on the remains of the back porch in a shower of glass and wood splinters. There’s no time to catch my breath. I jump off the porch and dive through a hole in the back fence, still clutching the stupid gun that I can’t fire.

I dart down streets, between houses, and find myself coming back toward the street where I first saw Bench Press and Rat Face. But I’m getting tired. Breaking through a glass door was perhaps not the best plan. My right arm is all sliced up and bleeding, making a smudgy mark on the gun.

Desperately, I look for somewhere, anywhere, that I can hide.

I reach the street as a woman in a green overcoat is headed up the sidewalk.

“Please, you have to help me!”

She looks alarmed. I don’t blame her. I hold the gun as nonthreateningly as possible.

“I’m not the bad guy, here,” I insist.

She nods and grabs a crumpled paper bag from the top of a trash can. “This is the best I can do.” She takes the gun from me, puts it in the bag, and keeps walking up the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?”

She looks back. “Trying to save your life.” She disappears into an alley.

I stand there on the sidewalk, my heart pounding. Rapid footsteps grow closer. I blink slowly as the city street fades away around me.